


x

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank Anderson, Angst, Cutting, Gen, Graphic Description, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, can be read as pre-relationship or purely platonic, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24527266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: Connor cuts.It would be convenient if he could point to one thing in his life that caused this, but in the end, it’s all on him. He’s the one who chose to put a blade to his skin. His parents hurt him with words and resentment, and he went through a string of boyfriends who hurt him with more. Red ice numbed everything after he dropped out of high school, but after he quit that, he didn’t have anything better to fall back on. Legal and illicit drugs, cutting, sex with strangers who treated him like shit.“Look.” Connor pokes Hank’s chest. “I don’t need your help. I’ve gotten along thirty-five years without it. I don’t want help from some android I barely know, and before you suggest it, I don’t need therapy, either. I’m having a bad day and that’s it.”
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Kudos: 93





	x

Connor cuts.

It’s a habit at this point. Bad day? Cut. Good day? Cut. Sometimes there is a cause, something that pushes him to his limits and makes him feel like he’s about to explode if he keeps everything inside of himself. Other times, it calms him at night like hot chamomile tea, soothing his persistent anxieties as part of his evening routine.

The blade in his hand is small and silver. Tarnished and dull, but it shines in the light of the bathroom. Such a tiny thing, and yet over the years, a number of these small blades have torn apart his skin, leaving scars upon scars criss crossing his body, a testament to his depression and trauma. It’s a secret that’s difficult to keep, but it’s not acceptable to exist openly in a body like this, not in this society.

His face is emotionless in the mirror. He’s shirtless, leaving his scars bare, still wearing his jeans from work. The bags under his eyes are heavy. Blood wells up slowly, pearls of the thick red liquid beading at the new cuts on his arm. He barely feels the pain after being numbed through habit and scar tissue. It’s never enough anymore.

It would be convenient if he could point to one thing in his life that caused this, but in the end, it’s all on him. He’s the one who chose to put a blade to his skin. His parents hurt him with words and resentment, and he went through a string of boyfriends who hurt him with more. Red ice numbed everything after he dropped out of high school, but after he quit that, he didn’t have anything better to fall back on. Legal and illicit drugs, cutting, sex with strangers who treated him like shit. 

How can he blame them for something he asked for? His past haunts him, and even when he pushes it out of mind, it follows. PTSD, according to a former therapist. Nonstop anxiety and self-esteem shot to hell. It’s a wonder he’s even alive today.

He slices again, firm and fast, three more times. The sound of flesh tearing sounds like fabric being shorn apart. More blood seeps out, the heavy drops rolling along his skin. As he angles his arm to the side, holding it over the sink, it spills across his arm and down to the sink, cold and wet. It’s never warm like stories say it is. Always chill against his skin, viscous and gunky as it dries. He doesn’t normally bleed this much from the arm, but he needs it. He needs to feel something familiar that isn’t the depression that clings to his soul.

As he pulls his skin taut to aggravate and open the thin wounds further, there’s a knock at the door.

Connor sets the blade aside and reaches for the roll of paper towel, ripping off a piece and pressing it to his arm to sop up the blood. It soaks through and he curses, tossing the soiled piece and grabbing another. “Coming!” he shouts, uncertain if the guest can hear him. 

Blood stains his skin and the cuts continue to bleed, but it’s slow. He darts into his room to grab a fresh shirt--the one from work today is white--and opts for a hoodie instead, one with the DPD logo on front. He makes a mental note to wash it later, but the fabric is thick enough that he shouldn’t bleed through and baggy enough that it shouldn’t touch the underside of his arm much.

He answers the door with a smile, dropping it the moment he notices who it is. “You.”

“Sup.” Hank grins, his LED bright and blue. That expression does not mean anything good for Connor. “Your phone’s off.”

“Funny. Usually that means I want to be alone.” Connor levels him with a hard stare.

They’ve never gotten along, clashing during the deviancy investigation and only barely coming to grudgingly non-hostile terms by the end of that. They hardly kept in touch the following year, and now that it’s 2040 and androids have legal identities, Hank’s been accepted as a paralegal at the same office Connor now works, having quit the DPD after the revolution (or fired, rather, but he was planning to quit, anyway). Connor’s been working with the man ever since, feeling equal parts like he’s incompetent compared to such technology or that Hank needs too much guidance. 

“You don’t normally snap at people like that,” Hank says, pushing his way into Connor’s house. He only makes it in because Connor’s not putting that much effort into keeping him out. “You couldn’t wait a couple minutes for your caffeine fix, so you tore Reed a new one. I get wanting to yell at him, I really do, but the break room isn’t exactly private, Detective.”

Connor shuts the door and ignores the jab at his former title. The arm movement pulls at his cuts and he’s not sure if they’re still bleeding or not. “He’s a dick. He needs to realize it sometime.” In truth, Gavin, who was visiting the office for another case, had made an off-color comment about people offing themselves and Connor simply couldn’t take it anymore. Normally he can handle those sorts of comments with ease, letting them slide off his shoulders and coming back with a scathing, witty response, but all he could think of was the thick scar down his arm and the time he woke up in the hospital after downing a bottle of sleeping pills.

The memories make him ache for the pain he’s put his family through, but they also make him wish he’d succeeded so he could be free of the stress. He still thinks about trying again someday, not that he’d tell anyone about that. Nines pushes him to get therapy but never digs deep enough to find out how much Connor continues to struggle. It makes Connor resentful, but he knows it’s partly his fault for not reaching out, instead whittling himself away one piece at a time.

Hank peruses the contents of his fridge, grabbing a beer and popping the cap off. He’s the only android Connor knows who can taste. “I wanted to check in on you,” he says. “Make sure you weren’t, you know, drinking yourself into a coma or something.” At the “or something,” he gestures slitting his own wrists. The motion is suitably Hank-like, crass as it is, but it has Connor seeing red. Hank clearly has no idea, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting.

“We all get stressed sometimes,” Connor says coldly. He stands beside the kitchen table and wills his hands not to shake. Neither of them sits. “Why chase me down over it? I’m fine.”

Hank takes a long drink from the beer. “The Connor I know doesn’t lose his composure like that. Was it the case? Something about the abuse or the red ice involvement that’s got you keyed up?”

“Maybe I’m sick of watching over a rookie who can’t take shit seriously,” he snaps. “Maybe it’s having you hovering at my shoulder at every room, every interview, every other minute of every day. Do you even have a concept of physical space? Respect for cases as more than just games to win or puzzles to solve? Or are you just doing whatever you want as long as it fits your mission parameters?”

Hank looks at him closely, lips pursed. “Sounds like we have some things to work out.”

“Maybe. Yes. Some other time.” He hates losing his composure, but he knows Hank knows he’s high strung, and he hates that, too. 

“You may not care about me, but funny enough, I care about you,” Hank says. “Maybe I’m like a duckling. You taught me empathy, I imprinted. Or something like that. All I know is whatever’s going on in your head, you’re going to let it spiral because your mind doesn’t let up. So I thought me being here might help.”

That is the opposite of what Connor wants right now. “I’ll spiral without you, thanks.”

“That does not instill confidence. I’ll leave if you really want me to, but c’mon. You look stressed as hell.”

“Look.” Connor pokes Hank’s chest. “I don’t need your help. I’ve gotten along thirty-five years without it. I don’t want help from some android I barely know, and before you suggest it, I don’t need therapy, either. I’m having a bad day and that’s it.”

Hank’s eyes are hard, but he nods. “Then I’ll leave.” He grasps Connor’s arm and slowly pushes it away.

Unfortunately, the spot he’s chosen to hold is where the wounds are. The angle and pressure rub the fabric against his fresh cuts, feeling like sandpaper pulling his skin open again. “Ah!” Connor yanks his hand back, biting his lip and shutting his eyes as he presses his hand to his own arm, putting pressure where it hurts most. It hurts, and god, it’s a different kind of hurt than the one he wants. “Fuck.” He leans against the kitchen counter, waiting out the waves of pain.

“Connor?”

“I’m fine.” The throbbing is already starting to fade. “Aggravated a bruise, that’s all.”

“Is that blood? Shit.” Hank gently touches Connor’s hand, and Connor opens his eyes. “What happened?”

Connor winces. The grey fabric under his hand is soaked through with red. He doesn’t have any excuses prepared. “Nothing,” he mutters. “I thought you were leaving?”

“Connor,” Hank says firmly. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.” There’s a smudge of red on his finger. “What the hell happened?”

The concern on Hank’s face is such a sudden change from his usually easygoing or grumpy demeanor. He’s serious in a way he rarely is. Connor almost regrets snapping at him.

He knows he’s not getting away with a lie this time, so he doesn’t try to deflect.

“I hurt myself.” Connor manages to look at Hank’s face, but can’t meet his eyes. “Sliced up my arm, just like you thought I would. You can go. I’ll manage.”

Hank’s eyes widen and his LED blips red. “I didn’t think…” He grimaces, then gently takes Connor’s hand. “Let me help. Please.”

“Why? So you can feel like you’re helping?”

“Because you deserve to have people who support you.”

Whatever Connor expected, it wasn’t that. “What?”

“We cope in different ways. I act like a jackass, and then I let off steam by walking my dog. You put on a professional face and privately self-destruct with all sorts of vices. It’s obvious, even when I didn’t know about this. Thing is, I got my ass in gear and made a couple friends. Court-ordered therapy helped a bit. You, on the other hand, have two brothers who aren’t even in the same country as you.”

“Canada’s not far,” Connor says, but Hank’s right. He doesn’t have anyone. The only person in this city who knows a damn thing about him is Hank.

“We haven’t even been trying to get along with each other. Maybe we should,” Hank says. “It doesn’t need to matter. Will you let me help you?”

Connor’s shoulders sag. “You don’t want to see this.” It’s his body, his normal, his everyday: It doesn’t phase him even when it should, but to Hank, this is something new. 

“It’s just you,” Hank says quietly. 

“Yeah, me being a fucking disappointment.”

“You’re also the man who saved my life and helped save the lives of many other androids. That counts for something.”

Connor takes a shaky breath. The fabric continues to irritate, and he lets go of it. He trusts Hank with his life, but emotional vulnerability is something else. Hank’s an ass the same as he is, and it’s not that he worries Hank will spread rumors or tell anyone else, but it’s uncomfortable to trust someone who is clearly not his friend.

They could be friends, he tells himself. Hank’s willing, and though it may seem disingenuous to only offer it when Connor’s hurting, he at least knows Hank doesn’t do things halfway. The revolution and ensuing actions he took can attest to that. “Okay,” he says. Cleaning his wounds is something he can do on his own, but it feels validating to be seen like this, and strange to have someone wanting to help. He just hopes Hank isn’t about to try to fix him. “I’ll let you.”

Hank leads him to the bathroom, spinning yellow-yellow-red when he spots the blood in the sink and the soaked paper towel. “Take your sweatshirt off. I’ll grab a cloth.”

Connor complies, tossing the sweatshirt to the ground. He’ll have to wash it thoroughly later. The blood on his arm is tacky, with sticky smears against his skin. It’s a relief to have the offending fabric removed, but the cuts still sting from the unwanted irritation. 

He looks in the mirror and sees a grotesque shell of a man with nothing to live for.

“Hey.” There’s a hand at his cheek as Hank turns Connor’s face towards him. He swipes a thumb under Connor’s eye, and Connor realizes his eyes are wet. “I’ve got you.”

Connor nods and closes his eyes, gripping the counter to keep himself steady.

Hank is gentle when rinsing his cuts, then pats them dry with a soft washcloth. When Connor offers him the peroxide, Hank puts it back in its place. “It takes longer to heal if you use that,” Hank says, like Connor doesn’t already know. “I know this shit stings. I’m not going to hurt you more.”

It takes Hank a few minutes to locate some bandages, given how infrequently Connor uses them. He sprays Connor’s arm with antiseptic and wraps it expertly.

“Thanks.” Connor flexes his hand. He’s left with the normal ache he always has, like some sort of bruise perpetually under his skin, but missing the sting of the peroxide. Hank hasn’t looked at him once with any pity in his eyes, and for that, Connor’s grateful. “You know this doesn’t go away, right? I won’t stop.” He’s tried plenty of times. Funnily enough, he’s had his best clean streaks when he wasn’t even trying. Turns out thinking all the time about abstaining makes it harder to do just that.

“I can’t make you, but that’s not my goal.” Hank takes Connor’s bare, scarred shoulder and guides him to the living room sofa. “I get it. This is a lot when we hardly know each other, and I’m not about to say I’ll bend over backwards to help you. I can’t. What I can do is offer you a shoulder to lean on and an ear if you need one. I can kick your ass in gear, too, when you need it. Just…” He sighs. “I knew you had issues, but not how bad.”

Connor snorts. “I’ve got issues. Understatement of the year.”

“You got a therapist?”

“We’re not starting that conversation.” Connor holds up a hand when Hank tries to speak. “Not today. I can’t. I’m at my limit, okay?” The urge to hurt himself hasn’t left, simmering stronger with the stress of Hank’s presence. 

Hank relents. “Okay,” he says, sitting beside Connor and tentatively resting his arm across his shoulders. Connor doesn’t shrug him off, so he settles in, relaxing into the seat. “When’s the last time you just spent time with someone?”

“Not long ago.” Connor thinks back. “Probably…”

Well. Outside of one-night stands, he’s got nothing.

“Don’t sweat it,” Hank says. “I’m not exactly great at keeping up with people, myself. Bet you figured that out last year.”

Connor looks up into his face. “Would you have reached out if we didn’t work together now?”

“I don’t know. Probably someday, but who knows when that would have been?” Hank squeezes Connor’s shoulder. “Now you’re stuck with me, because for whatever godforsaken reason, I kind of like you.”

“Funny.” Connor reaches his hand up to Hank’s. He feels strange at having his arms on display, some mix of vulnerable and relieved at being seen like this. It’s too late to shy away. “I kind of like you, too.”

Maybe letting Hank in won’t be so bad after all.


End file.
